


born to shadow and flame

by aelins



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: ACOSF SPOILERS !, Azriel is a dick the whole time, Elain is Not Very Nice in the beginning, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Consent, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Poor Lucien Vanserra, Rhysand is actually IN CHARACTER, So he's a good boy, War, Worldbuilding, basically i expand on Lucien's powers, basically lucien's rise to power/love, eris vanserra redemption arc, lord help me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-15 22:27:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29566095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aelins/pseuds/aelins
Summary: ***THIS DESCRIPTION CONTAINS SPOILERS FOR ACOSF****-----------LAST WARNING!----Lucien's life has been one tragedy after another. A mate who does not love him--a life that has never been wholly his. Eris makes a ground-shattering sacrifice that will bring his father to his knees--and cause Lucien to claim his own power. Elain sees that her mate is truly a good man--after many years of false starts and betrayals, can they move past the circumstances of their bond?a Lucien centric post-ACOSF long AU
Relationships: Elain Archeron/Lucien Vanserra, Eris Vanserra/Original Character(s), Feyre Archeron/Rhysand, Nesta Archeron/Cassian
Comments: 14
Kudos: 20





	1. whoa, whoa i'm on fire.

**Author's Note:**

> I've planned this fic fully, so it should just be a matter of writing it.

Eris Vansera faced down death. Beron was attacking him hard and fast. The courtyard was a ball of flame. He’d have been a good High Lord—maybe if he hadn’t been so reckless. If he hadn’t played a deadly game of betrayal. His mind goes to the two brothers who lie dead in the courtyard, their charred bodies making a horrible stink.

He says a prayer to the mother, _I am sorry I could not do more._ Eris pleas for entrance to the undying lands.

Beron snarls—and hurls a ball of flame at his son. His deception is known to all here.

“Father—“ Eris’ voice is small, broken.

Beron barks a laugh and pins Eris to the wall. A knife at his throat.

There were spies—Eris’ spies watching all around the courtyard. So he raises his voice a bit. “Tell Lucien it was worth it. Every insult—every indignity. Tell him I love him, and that he will be the end of you.”

Beron realizes he is not being spoken to—that the message is for the crowd—and severs Eris’ head from his shoulders.

It lands with a dull thud.

Beron is not to be trifled with, and people have already started going back to their own business. No one weeps—for what Eris might have been.

No, but the sound of wind picking up—and squashing the flames—provides cover for the spies to flee to the night court.

_Directly to Velaris._

*~*~*

“Word has come from the Autumn Court that Eris is dead,” Rhysand says to his Emissary.

Rhys had just sat Lucien down in his office at the river house and poured him a generous portion of aged whiskey. Never a good sign.

Lucien swallows it down gratefully. “Are you asking me to claim the throne?”

Rhys makes a noise of assent, “All of your brothers are dead. You are the only one left. We’ll take the utmost precautions. You’re about to become a high lord.”

“What makes you so sure I can defeat him?” Lucien asks.

“Because, bitterness is a paralytic—love is a vicious motivator.”

Lucien snorts, “She’s already fallen into another’s arms. I am the last person she wants to see.”

“I’ve spoken to Azriel.”

Lucien barks a laugh, “ _Don’t_.”

“I can and I will. Azriel has been out of line for months—if not years. Encroaching on another’s mate—“ Rhysand gave Lucien a look that Lucien couldn’t entirely read—he could tell Rhysand wasn’t impressed with his spymaster, beyond that he couldn’t read his meaning. 

Lucien ducks a nod, “Elain doesn’t love me—what would I be fighting for? The people of the Autumn Court do not wish to be ruled by me.”

“The people of all other courts. Elain might come around.” Rhys says sorrowfully.

_Might_. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—hinge his life on a chance.

“I’m not—“

Elain rushes down into the office—pauses looking awkward—and then looks past Lucien to Rhys. “This just came for Lucien. I thought you should read it.”

Rhys doesn’t want to play middle man though, “Just give it to him. I’m sure our Emissary will be forthcoming with the information.”

Lucien rolls his eyes, feels the familiar desolation he feels when Elain is in the room creeping into his bones. She frowns at him and hands him the letter. He hurries to read it.

_My dearest brother,_

_If you are reading this—I am dead. For too long now I’ve watched you be downtrodden. You were always more of your mother’s son than I was. A fact I deeply regret—not having our mother’s kindness. You have shown me so many things. Come home, Lucien. Claim your throne. Though you may not be Beron’s son—you are the Lady of the Autumn Court’s son. You will be a great ruler. It is my last wish that you come home and claim this—your birthright._

_All my love,_

_Eris_

Something utterly shattered in Lucien. He doesn’t let Rhys see it—except for maybe the sagging of his shoulders.

Eris who had been horrible to him his whole life—had loved him. He’d wished he’d known, wished there was anyone in the wide world who would dare show their love for him. It would have been nice to talk to family.

Lucien swallows down the emotion in his throat. “I’ll do it.”

Rhys claps his hands, “I’ll have Cassian bring up a brand new Illyrian blade for you, and any other weapons you need.”

Lucien nods.

Elain flees the room.

*~*~*

The leaves and mountains painted a symphony of color, a symphony of life and rebirth. Lucien hopes this is the right path for him. Hopes for Elain—no his thoughts cannot be tainted by the dread that fills him when he thinks of beautiful Elain. Elain—his mate, his love, his life.

The High Fae female who’d spit on every attempt for them to connect.

He’d seen them, that night. Azriel about to devour her mouth, and her body bowing into his. It had ruined him. So he and Elain hadn’t spoken much.

But now, as he looks down at the Autumn Court palace—Eris’ smoke hounds waiting for him at the edge of the territory—he knows he is going to his death, or to his salvation. Beron awaits him. He can see the plumes of smoke rising from the perimeter of the palace. He knows the building will not be consumed by the ring of flame, but that it might very well consume him.

He plucks the bond—to get Elain’s attention. _I’m sorry I didn’t say goodbye before I left Velaris—I didn’t think you wanted to see me._

Her mind feels sleepy, he knows it can’t be much past eight in the morning, and he knew she was likely sleeping in.

_Good luck. Don’t risk anything foolish._ Her words are short, clipped, and tense down their mating bond.

_If I survive, you should come to visit._

Silence…. And then… _If you survive maybe we can talk. I’ve needed a friend these months._

He smiles and then walks toward the fire.

He expects it will hurt, being burned but the earth seems to recognize him, the flames an old friend. He walks through the wall of flames, with the gold hilt of an illyrian blade peaking past his shoulder. He draws the blade, fully anticipating that Beron will be furious that the flames did not burn him up.

He knows that Beron has never cared for him his life has been one moment of abuse after another. Neglect is written in his very soul. When he severs Beron’s head from his shoulders, and the court, which Lucien realizes was trapped inside the palace, bows to him—it is not an accomplishment he feels. No, it is relief at a great cost. He is the High Lord of the Autumn Court.

He waves for the people to stand. He doesn’t make a speech, or a grand pronouncement, merely calls for wine and food. He’s exhausted.

It takes hours to extricate himself from the celebrations. He hadn’t expected the cruel people of the Autumn Court to rejoice, he’d expected a full-on riot. But even the most twisted, the most depraved, know the meaning of goodness—if only because they lack it.

Lucien plucks the string of their bond again. _Made it_.

_I knew you would._ Elain says down the bond, now sounding more awake.

_Oh yeah?_ Lucien challenges.

_I miss you, my fox. I know you have always meant well. Never treated me as a prize to be won. I want to see you._

Something warm and fluttering stirs in Lucien’s chest. _I missed you too, I’ll come to Velaris to get you in a few weeks. I want to make sure things are settled here._

_Be careful_. Elain’s end of the bond goes dim, and he knows she’s focused elsewhere.

That night, Lucien Vanserra lies awake in bed, he thinks of the soft blush on Elain’s cheeks. Of her gardening, and how badly he wants to be a part of her life.

He loves her—more than anything in the whole world—even if that love is not returned.


	2. fighting words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elain and Azriel have a fight. 
> 
> Lucien is amazed by Elain. 
> 
> Rhys wants to take the garbage out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey for those of you who found this story and have started following my user--thank you. Thank you to every single one of you who support this work, it has put a smile on my face every day for a week! 
> 
> Also, BIG ACOSF SPOILERS in this chapter.

Elain paces the library in the river house like a ghost, that’s what she feels like these days—a fucking ghost, a question mark hanging in the air, suspended by her own doubt. Azriel is hovering—which he never does. He’s been snappish and rude and she cannot stand to see them both torn up.

She goes to Azriel, putting her hand on his shoulder, trying to reassure her. He wrenches his shoulder from her grip. “Az, stop it—“ She barks at him.

Azriel spins and holds her out at arm’s length like he always does— “No. I won’t. You made your choice. I am tired of always being left behind, if you want to go to him, that’s fine, but you do so without my blessing, and without my love.”

Elain’s face goes stricken. “You can be so cruel,” Elain says softly and marches off. What had she expected from a man who took pleasure in torturing the night court’s enemies? What had she _really expected_?

_Lucien_ —gods above she wanted her mate.

Elain goes to her room and toys with their bond. _Lucien, I miss you_.

Lucien answers quickly, _Is that because he’s angry with you? Because I have always wondered what this would mean for you and the shadowsinger._

She huffs a sad laugh, _Lucien, do not be petty—_

_I am not being petty. **I wonder what you have done with him in the dark.**_

_Nothing_. _I have not given him that part of myself._

Lucien hated the jealousy running through his veins, _I care so much about you—Azriel is not a kind male. He is not what you believe him to be. He would start a war—maybe even plot my death to steal you back. You do not know him as I do._

Elain feels a tear roll down her cheek, _When will you be here?_

_Soon._ And the bond does dead, Lucien was in the courtyard of the river house an hour later.

Elain had spent the time she waited for Lucien to have the two wraiths help her do her hair in loose curls.

She put a cherry blossom in her hair—they were in bloom and the garden was a sight to be seen this time of year.

May was a beautiful time to be in Velaris, especially at the river house.

But she suspected the Autumn Court—with its perennial sunset colors would make her jaw drop. She strolls out to the courtyard, having seen his head of auburn hair from the window. She smiles as she sees Lucien—the smile reaches her eyes and makes them crinkle with joy.

She runs to him, throwing her arms around him and Lucien picks her up, spinning her around. “How is my girl?” Lucien inquires, a happy smile on his lips.

She puts her hand on his chest and then pulls it away. She tries to compose herself and steps back—remembering herself and the need to be proper with him. “I am well, Lucien about everything—“

He shakes his head, “Tell me later we have company.”

Azriel steps out from the shadows, he looks angrier than he has any right to be. “Vanserra?” Azriel stands with his feet a hip’s width apart, darkness curling against his muscled frame.

Lucien snarls, “I wouldn’t pick a fight with a High Lord.” For now, Lucien’s power was triple what it had been when he was just the youngest son. A flame flickers in Lucien’s eyes.

“Invoke the Blood Duel—Vanserra.” Azriel’s voice booms out, challenge and disrespect in every syllable.

“ _Why_?” Lucien asks, sounding about a hundred years older than he was—and maybe a little bored.

“Because I chall—“

Elain points her finger at Azriel— “You will _not_.” Gone is the young woman who didn’t know her own mind. Gone is Elain Archeron who could not stand the flame in her heart.

Azriel’s shoulders slump, and Lucien slips his hand into Elain’s. “If you invoke the Blood Duel I will personally see to it that _I_ kill you.” Elain had powers—powers no one, not even Azriel had guessed at. She was a seer, yes, but the ground shakes as she speaks.

The mountains rumble with her ability to change fate.

She was _Elain Archeron_ and she would not be afraid of a male who thought he was entitled to her.

Azriel spits on the ground. “You’re both scum,” and then he walks away.

Feyre comes marching out soon after, as Lucien tries to calm Elain’s fraying temper.

The High Lady of the Night Court was carrying her son, and bouncing him on a hip, “I heard everything, I tried to give you guys privacy but when the mountains start to rumble—I do get concerned.”

“Lucien, don’t let him get to you ok?” Elain says.

Lucien’s ears had turned bright red, and his cheeks had pinked in anger. “I don’t understand him—I never have, and I never will.”

A whistling noise, along with a burning arrow lights up the air. A burning arrow lodges itself in Lucien’s back, Lucien’s control over fire is such that he grits his teeth, and incinerates the Arrow. He’s trying to get Elain out of harm's way, covering her body with his.

Feyre’s barking orders at Azriel, words like _stop_ , and _if you harm them I’ll kill you_. Shrieks rent the air and Lucien winnows them home.

Lucien turns towards Elain, she’s unharmed, but gods above.

“That _asshole_.” Elain barks out, hot anger in every syllable.

Lucien’s back is bloodied and Feyre sends them both a mental message— _Do not come back—Azriel is throwing seven fits._

A moment later, Feyre sends along Elain’s bags.

Lucien’s blood is all over his cloak, his head is spinning. Elain approaches him, “This might sting a little—“

“Elain, what are you—“ But she’s ripping Lucien’s shirt off, exposing the expanse of muscled chest and back and she puts her hand to his arrow wound—and heals it, with merely the press of her hand on his marred flesh.

“T-Thank you.” Lucien babbles. He’s looking at her with wonder in her eyes—wonder and so much love.

“You’re gorgeous.” Elain’s cheeks have pinked and Lucien had been marveling at her handiwork—but he looks up sharply and grins at her.

“So are you, my dear.”

Lucien mends his shirt with magic—a bit rough, he’s too busy grinning at Elain like a fool in love.

*~*~*

A declaration is sent to Rhys, not a declaration of war—but one of distrust.

_I was attacked while retrieving my mate from your territory. Make this right, High Lord._

_High Lord Vanserra_

Rhysand pours over his morning tea, shouting to Azriel about how he never expected his own _brother_ to start a war over a female who wasn’t even his to claim in the first place.

With the utmost venom, Azriel spits at Rhysand, “We _all_ went to war for you and Feyre. Why will no one do the same for me?”

Rhysand is tempted to throttle Azriel, “You are a _fucking fool_. She is not _yours_ you have no control over who she chooses. Elain is not an object! You are not fighting over a flower!”

“Maybe we are.” The wicked, savage grin only proved Rhysand’s point, that Azriel could not deserve Elain less.

“I’m tired, Azriel—“ Rhysand begins, “I have a newborn and wife who is recovering from _very_ traumatic childbirth, have you thought of Feyre? Have you thought of Nyx—your nephew?”

Azriel swallows hard, “I’m going to get her back.”

Rhysand points a finger at Azriel, much like Nesta’s finger had pointed at the King of Hybern, “That attitude will get you killed.”

Azriel doesn’t look like he much cares.


End file.
